


Heathens

by Luna_May



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: #Apocalypse, #BAMFMary, #BBC, #I'mAmericanPLSHelp, #John, #LotsofOCs, #Mycroft, #OFC, #Sherlock - Freeform, #Zombies, #london, F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 23:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10909938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_May/pseuds/Luna_May
Summary: The world did not end in a bang or a whisper, but rather one scream at a time.AKAwhat happens when you're sleep deprived and you can finally use that one writing prompt.OrPost-apocalyptic Sherlock AU.





	Heathens

**Author's Note:**

> I'm an American trying to write using British slang, please correct me. 
> 
> Disclaimer:  
> I don't own Sherlock, shocker I know, at least I'm not Moffat.  
> there will be blood, and gore, death and all those wonderful things so, have fun.

The world did not end in a bang or a whisper, but rather one scream at a time.

Screams of families finding their grandmother moving around, eating their dog.

Screams of lovers finding creatures pounding on their doors.

Screams of fear, and hate, and hunger.

And regret.

 

That all happened about three months ago, now?

John Watson was rushing (and or limping) down the streets, gun in one hand knife in the other, trying not to die.

Damn, forest dwellers, shooting at anyone, Undead or not. His wounded leg ached with a fiery pain he hadn’t known since the war. He could feel the call of home energizing his bones, as he neared London, having been caught outside of it when the outbreak first began he had no time to return until now. He just needed some supplies, to patch himself up. Preferably a strong alcohol.  

For medical purposes, obviously.

Autumn leaves littered the ground, faint wisps of wind lifting them up for a second. Small food wrappers would be an occasional occurrence. Though the street was clear there was the faint sound of an undead groaning in the background. Calling them zombies felt to sci-fi, or light-hearted. They weren’t random creatures come from somewhere. They were people, people who died, or where infected. People we knew and cared about.

People we missed.

That said, the streets were strangely clean, as though the other people who had survived here (Lived being a strong word) must’ve been well equipped.

He continued limping down the street, beginning to have the sense that he was being watched.

Hand on the holster that held his gun, he began to take more sporadic allies. His eyes flashing from rooftop to rooftop, window to window.

Footsteps.

Not the shambling, scuffs of the undead trying in vain to catch the ex-solider.

They were careful, purposeful.

Human.

John stopped, slowly, quietly pulling out his pistol.

After all, the living had a sense of revenge.

He spun around, fast, causing another flare of pain rush up his body.

He was met with a man. Pale, with dark curly hair, and intelligent green eyes. “Hello.” His deep baritone voice echoed in the empty streets.

“Who are you?” John demanded. A mixture of relief that there was a peaceful human still here, and fear as to how he’d survived.

London had been overrun with the undead, and he seemed to be alone.

“Sherlock Holmes.” He answered, voice monotone. “So, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“What?”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Uh, Afghanistan? How did you-?”

“Unimportant.” Sherlock brushed him off, though words danced on his tongue. “You’ve been shot.”

The wound was certainly still there, pain biting at him.

John nodded.

“Follow me.” Sherlock whipped around and walked briskly in the direction of a few flats.

John decided to for once listen to his long dead therapist, and trust the man.

He’s always wanted to prove her wrong, anyway.

 

Sherlock led him down Baker Street to a building labeled 221. “I live in 221B. I’m assuming that as a doctor you can fix your leg yourself?” “How did you know?”

Sherlock just sighed. “I haven’t the time to explain, though I’d assume you’d be as dismissive as the others.”

He opened the door to 221B, and ushered John inside, rummaging around the kitchen and fridge. _Was there a head in there?_

The walls had a black and white, floral pattern on them, the hardwood floor was amazingly intact still. The wall, though, had a few holes in it. And a smiley face painted in what he assumed to be blood. A small kitchen, lit with a few candles was easy to spot as a large chemistry set was situated on the dining table. There was a hallway leading to a few doors off of the main room.

“Okay . . .” John paused, as Sherlock placed gauze, bandages, tweezers, stiches, aspirin and a bottle of whiskey on a dusty table.

“If you must sit, use that chair.” Sherlock motioned to a large red chair with a bloodstained blanket thrown over the back.

John sat down, took a swig of whiskey, and went to work.

 

After sewing himself back together, Sherlock sat in front of him in a smaller, black faux-leather armchair. “I’m John Watson.”

“Do you like the violin?”

“Uh, why?”

“As possible flatmates it’s important to know the worst about each other.”

“I guess?” John replied, somewhat confused.

Sherlock nodded. “There’s an extra room upstairs.”

John’s face contorted in confusion. “Excuse me?” “It’s obvious, that you have nowhere to go, you are alone, in the apocalypse.” Sherlock responded, voice flat. “And I happen to have an unoccupied room upstairs.”

“Ah.” John hummed. “I’ll take it.”

After all any place to stay is a place to stay, it’s protection.

“Ms. Hudson!” Sherlock yelled, out the door, he’d left open.

“Sherlock, do keep your voice down.” An older lady came in, what once was a nice blouse was now torn and dirty, though it did match the pair of ripped jeans she sported. “Oh! You have a guest? Not infected?” “I would have shot him if he was.” Sherlock replied, dryly. “And Mr. Watson will be taking the room upstairs.”

“Oh! Wonderful!” Ms. Hudson clapped her hands briefly, before a look of pain flashed across her face. “I’ll make some, tea. Looks like you’ve got a nasty shot.” She turned. “But just once.” She called over her shoulder.

“Thank you.” John said as she left. Turning back, he added. “So how did you know, about me?”

A smile passed by his lips, if only for an instant. “Your haircut and the way you hold yourself is military.” Sherlock motioned to the makeshift bandages around his arm from being cut by a few survivors. “You were alone when you came to London, and easily trusted me, signaling a lack of socialization, though you’ve managed to not bleed out or get infected. Doctor. You’ve got tan lines just below the wrists and neck, you’ve been out in the sun but not sunbathing, and most people prefer to keep to the forests, or shade where, they wouldn’t tan, so you must’ve gotten it earlier. Afghanistan or Iraq.”

John paused for a moment, processing how the man could get all that from looking. “Brilliant.” He told him.

The man looked surprised. “That’s not what they normally say.” “What do they normally say?”

“Piss off.” John let out a small laugh.

“So, how have you survived?” John asked.

“I . . . work with others.” Sherlock said those words as if they were poison.

As if by magic, a man with salt and pepper hair appeared at the doorway. “Sherlock? We got a case.” A nostalgic look passed by his face, as he left the room.

The man in question heaved himself to his feet, grabbing a ripped and stained trench coat and a bandana that might’ve once been a scarf, he left the room.

Then he was back.

“You were a soldier.”

“Yes.”

“You’re a doctor.”

“You’ve seen many deaths.” “Yes.” “You’ve seen many battlefields.” “Yes.” “Do you want to see another?” “Oh God yes.”

“Crutches are in the closet. It’s at the Yard.” Sherlock turned and his coat fanned out behind him as he left.

John hobbled toward the closet, wincing as he adjusted the height on the battered metal, cushion long worn away.

There were no more cabbies to drive them around the city, so back allies and empty roads were the main form of transport, thankfully the only undead were too far away to be a threat.

“So, what are your cases?” John asked, doing my best to keep up, though the crutches, and some of the blood loss made it difficult with the man’s fast pace.

“It’s when there’s something wrong that they want my help with.” Sherlock answered. “We call it cases for . . . sentiment. But really, it could be anything from survivors to an undead problem.”

John nodded, as they neared Scotland Yard, he could see police cars, and steaks blocking anything without a mind from getting in.

Sherlock lead John around to a small gate entrance in the back, where they were met with the man who greeted Sherlock in 221B.

“Lestrade.” Sherlock nodded curtly. “This is John Watson, he’s a former army doctor, and not infected. He will be helping me with the case.”

Lestrade nodded. “Detective Inspector Lestrade.” He frowned. “Though, I guess I’m not anymore, heh, call me Greg.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

Lestrade smiled before turning to Sherlock. “Alright, we’ve got an undead infestation in the old hardware store, take a few people and get rid of ‘em.”

“Consider it done.” Sherlock said, turning to me. “Are you ready, John?” 

“I believe I am, Sherlock.”

 

_All my friends are heathens,_

_take it slow_

 


End file.
